My mother will tell you I am her quiet child. The one living in her own little world. Responsible, obedient, and an overachieving student. The type of child every parent wishes to have—a ‘perfect’ one. I am the daughter they don't have to worry about. I never complain, never fight back, never disappoint anyone. I maintained that ‘image’ and carried it like a name tag. As if it were the only thing holding me together.
At the age of five, I was forced to swallow my tantrums. I learned how to hold back my tears, learn to fake a smile, treat my own bruises, and teach myself everything.
At seven, I became the ‘parent’ my parents failed to become. I protected my siblings from the abusive household like a knight in shining armor, absorbing every blow as if it were meant for me.
At 12, I was already solving problems that are meant for adults. It felt like being born into a role I didn't audition for —a caretaker, a maid, a therapist—healing every wound while letting mine bleed.
“You're so mature at a young age.”
I often heard these words. They said it like it was a gift. But in reality, it was a trap disguised as a compliment. Maturity is not a choice; it is survival. Just another word for ‘useful.’ I never chose this, but I have to because I have no one. I listen to their worries while keeping mine locked away. They lean on my shoulder while I carry all the weight by myself.
Now, I'm 17—having everything but not knowing how to enjoy anything. I beg for love and attention, but pull away when someone offers it freely. I yearn to be held gently, but flinch when someone tries to. My past taught me that love always comes with pain—that I wasn't allowed to hold onto something that makes me feel good, and only silence can keep the peace. I was used to being the afterthought, that being the priority feels almost wrong.
I grieve, grieve, and grieve, for the little girl I never got to be. For the childhood life I never got to enjoy. And the innocence they took away from me.
And just like ice—it’s funny how we get ruined by something we're made from.
Mother… was I built only to break?
